THE FIRST THIRTIETH

If loving is “the laughter of two

bodies,” we’ve laughed a lot

and loved it.

But every laugh’s

the first for us as every

breath or day or anniversary’s

the first.

Who was it said

that God despises those

who count?

Why bother over

sums if marriage seems

as briefly long as one full

day and one short night?

Let all the counters count

their way to June eleventh

thirty years ago.

They’ll end

with history, mere history,

since all that counting does

is lock you in the world.

For lovers, one plus one plus

one add up to times

when time’s irrelevant since love

has made them one another’s time,

and that’s the time that keeps.

They feel the sleep of memory

become today as quietly

as all their words and whispers

turn into the air.

Flowers

speak that language.

And the wind.

And kisses when it makes

no difference where or why…

Over the Atlantic once

I bought an in-flight watch

that told and tells time twice—

this minute and the time it is

in Paris.

Let’s call the time

it is right now in Paris

something like the time we tell.

Always differently identical,

it happens orangely in Italy,

olively in Egypt, orchidly

in Monaco, crimsonly in Barcelona,

silverly in London, greenly

in Kilkenny, balsamly near Saranac,

and steady as the sun at home.

Even if it ends, we’ll laugh

and say we’re still not done

because we’re only just beginning

what we always have begun.

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